


Lost in a Secret

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s05e21 Gaza, Other, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-04-08
Updated: 2005-04-08
Packaged: 2019-05-15 21:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14797889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: "Do you want to argue politics? Or do you want to stay the night? Because you can't have both."





	Lost in a Secret

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Lost In a Secret**

**by: IDreamOfAJ**

**Character(s):** Nancy McNally, Ann Stark  
**Pairing(s):** Nancy/Ann  
**Category(s):** Post-Episode  
**Rating:** ADULT  
**Summary:** “Do you want to argue politics? Or do you want to stay the night? Because you can’t have both.”  
**Spoiler:** _Gaza_.  
**Author's Note:** This is for the Wing Swing challenge. Go here: http://www.bluejello.org/wingswing/ 

Lost In A Secret 

You are aware that you are part of the best kept secret in a town that can’t seem to keep secrets. Nobody would ever suspect who you really are. They all think there was more to you and Toby Ziegler than the “just friends” line that you used until he realized that you weren’t even that. Nobody has ever seen you at one of “those” clubs. You don’t stare at women. You don’t fit the mold. No one would ever confuse you with Newt Gingrich’s sister. 

And even if someone, somewhere thought “well, maybe…” they would never be able to put the two of you together. You have nothing in common. You are on opposite sides of every argument. And what could either of you see in the other? 

You can’t answer that question for her. You really can’t see the attraction. Oh, it’s not that you don’t think yourself to be incredibly sexy. You are. You knew it before the other women and the men told you. But, you can’t seem to figure out why she would give you more than a passing glance. You are polar opposites. And everyone who has ever met her could tell you that she doesn’t waste anything, time or effort, on something (someone) that she doesn’t find important. 

You never pictured yourself being the passive type. You have always been the one with the power. In every relationship. You set the rules. You made the demands. You have always had the control. 

Until now. You can’t explain the hold she seems to have over you. You’ve never experienced this before. You wait for the phone calls. You rearrange your schedule to get mere moments with her. And every time that you leave her home, you pray that she will call again. 

You were surprised that the call came today. You were sure you wouldn’t hear from her for days. Military action must be imminent, even though that liberal Bartlet seems intent on trying to bring peace. You know she was there. That she had to see for herself the place that he died. You tried not to attach too much meaning to that. You know she just got into town a few hours ago. She had called from the plane as it was beginning its descent. 

And so here you are. In her house. The place that radiates strength and energy so different from your own. You were waiting in your car when she pulled up. You followed her inside without touching, without speaking. She has yet to touch you. She heads for the liquor cabinet, without asking what you’ll have. For some unknown reason, that pleases you. 

You’re being cute. Or, at least you’re trying to be. You’re asserting your perceived equality in this relationship. You’re acting like you have rights. That deep down you hope you actually might have one day. 

And so you hit the button on the answering machine. You can pretend that domesticity shared suits either of you. You turn, trying to be flirtatious, when you stumble. It’s the voice of a dead man. And you stare wide-eyed at the woman whose tongue you want on your skin, while you listen to the words of a man blown apart. You watch her eyes grow dim. 

“Remind me again, why the hell I agreed to come on this trip. I can’t believe how hot it is here. Well, I assume that you’re on a hot date. Because otherwise you’d be picking up this call and talking to me. Okay. Give me a call. Or, I’ll call you when I get back. Julia wants to have you over for dinner soon. You can bring a date. If she’s pretty.” 

The woman whose touch you crave simply shrugs. You know that she loved him. On some level. But the light finds its way back into her eyes. And you get distracted watching those hands pour a drink for you. You imagine what those hands will be doing later. It’s easy to push away the nagging feeling of disappointment that he didn’t know anything about you. 

You try to stop yourself from pressing the issue, pushing the buttons. But, you crave the edge and how close you can come to it, without toppling over. So you say the thing you know will provoke her easily. 

“You know, if we were in office, you could bomb them all to hell.” 

“I could do that now.” 

“Really?” 

“Well, no. But I still don’t want your people in that building.” 

“You say that now… .” 

“Do you want to argue politics? Or do you want to stay the night? Because you can’t have both.” 

And you smile sweetly. Though you both know it’s false. Because you would like nothing better than to convince her how very right you are. Except. You do want one thing more. You want her mouth on your breasts. And her weight pressed against you. And her fingers inside you. Okay, you want a couple things more. 

She ignores the plastered on grin and hands you your drink. You’re not a dainty sipper. So you drain half the glass in one go and your eyes never leave hers. She doesn’t seem remotely impressed. In fact she walks away from you. You have no choice but to follow. 

She leads you to the bedroom. It has become your favorite place in the world. It is where her dark hands roam your body. Where she lets you touch her, lie against her, taste inside her. She smiles, almost, as she places her glass on the nightstand. 

She is businesslike here as much as you imagine she is in the Situation Room. She is straightforward. There is nothing coy about her. She removes the severe business suit and unpins her hair. You know what is expected of you. And you do the same. 

Sometimes you wish that things were different. That just once there would be whispered words of love. Or even caring. That she would look at you as someone she couldn’t be without. Instead of someone she allows to make her come. But then, you remember that you’re not that kind of person either. 

So you flounce on the bed in one last attempt at playing the role you think you should. Even though it’s a role that would make you sick if worn on anyone you came in contact with. You grin, for real this time, when she passes her hands up your legs, taking the time to rest at your hips. 

She takes you quickly, pushing two fingers inside. Her mouth concentrates on your left breast, circling the nipple with her tongue. You don’t last long. You feel the building pressure just before you climax. She doesn’t linger. There are no soft kisses or easy stroking. She rolls to her back and waits. 

You don’t make her wait long. You take your time with her. Soft kisses down her jaw, small nips at her ears. Your fingers knead their way past her shoulders. You spend considerable time and attention on her breasts. You don’t put your mouth to hers. You never do. But her fingers grip your forearms, and that is reward enough for you. 

You lightly finger her stomach and thighs, as your hair trails behind. She spreads her legs wider and you settle between them. Your tongue darts out to flick across her clit. You are always surprised that she is wet. But, she always is. You lap up her juices and wish briefly that you could stay like this forever. Even though you wouldn’t really want that either. 

You tease her with your lips and tongue as you slide your hand along her inner thigh. She never trembles. But she tenses. It’s the closest sign to sheer want and desire that she ever gives. You oblige her with first one, then two, and finally three fingers driving in and out. Your tongue continues the assault on her clit. A sigh is the only sound she makes as her walls pulse around you. 

You continue to lick and suck, even as she shifts away from you. You don’t follow her to the shower. You use the guest bathroom and the lilac hand towel to clean yourself before getting dressed. You wait for her in the living room. This time nursing your second drink. 

Her appearance, once again in a suit, answers your unasked question of how this night will end. You collect your purse as she double checks the contents of her briefcase. She tells you that you can stay. That she’s only going in for a couple hours. She even says that she’ll pick up dinner on the way home. 

But, you know that she’ll be gone longer than a few hours. And it’s easier for you both if you don’t push the pretense of this particular illusion. It’s not an edge you can walk without falling. 

You hate this feeling. You know you must seem pathetic. You feel pathetic. And so you assert yourself once more. You merely nod and head for the door. You will not follow behind her tonight. As you open the door you hear the deep tenor of her voice and it stops you cold. You are shamed by the goose bumps that rise on your arms. 

“Ann.” 

It’s not a question. She doesn’t need your answers. Or your understanding. You grab hold of the shreds of who you are to every other person in this world, and you wrap them around yourself like a child’s blanket. 

“Goodnight, Nancy.” 

And you’re proud of yourself for not looking back. For not watching her walk to her car. Though your heart skips a beat as you catch a glimpse of her car backing out in your rearview mirror. You can go back to being yourself now. The woman in control. The woman with power. 

Yes, nobody would ever guess at this secret of yours. How could they? You are barely recognizable in the woman whose hands shake as she turns the ignition. But by the time you reach your office, you will be recognizable. And none of this will show. 

The End 


End file.
